


with no space left between us

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Ew so fluffy, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, have you ever seen two people so in love, its like writing smut but for the soul and worse, you ever write something so disgustingly romantic you want to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:25:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “You did it,” Eliot whispers into his ear, twisting his chin around and catching it on Quentin’s hair. He inhales, deep, and breathes him in.Quentin shakes his head, but makes no move to pull away. “El,” He mumbles, his words dancing along the skin of Eliot’s collar bone, lips dragging in their wake. “If you think I’m letting go—““Don’t,” Eliot interrupts, shaking his own head, closing his eyes. “Don’t let go. Not yet.”--Or, an i love you.





	with no space left between us

Quentin drops to his knees, wide eyed and awe struck. His chest heaves as he tries to catch a breath, but that’s all automatic, because he can’t care less about what his lungs are doing. Because there’s a glint of simmering hazel peaking out from beneath curly black hair—there’s a _nose_ and a _mouth_. And before Quentin can really be sure he’s done it, long, lithe fingers are pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt, and clumsy arms are making their way around the back of his neck and around his waist. He freezes, just a moment of hesitation, before all the air his lungs keep trying to collect whooshes out of him in one big burst and he’s collapsing against a familiar chest. All warmth and ease.

He squeezes Eliot with all the strength he has in him. Grips his fingers into the back of the monsters jacket, holds on for dear life. All the desperation that’s stacked up on his shoulders moves down; seeps into the air around them as Eliot pulls him in impossibly tighter.

“You did it,” Eliot whispers into his ear, twisting his chin around and catching it on Quentin’s hair. He inhales, deep, and breathes him in.

Quentin shakes his head, but makes no move to pull away. “El,” He mumbles, his words dancing along the skin of Eliot’s collar bone, lips dragging in their wake. “If you think I’m letting go—“

“Don’t,” Eliot interrupts, shaking his own head, closing his eyes. “Don’t let go. Not yet.”

A broken little laugh gusts out of Quentin’s mouth and bursts up and around the base of Eliot’s throat, all warmth and mist. “Don’t think I can,” Quentin says, softer than the silk of Eliot’s favorite sheets. Softer than the pull of Quentin’s hair on the coldest days of winter in Fillory. Than the feel of Eliot's lips against his under the stars. _Soft._ Softer than Eliot’s ever allowed himself to _feel._

“Good,” Eliot replies after a moment, his index finger moving up into Quentin’s hairline. Twisting around, twirling too short hair. Inhaling, letting the smell of his conditioner engulf him whole. Jesus. Is this what it is when it’s more than a memory? What it is to let himself hold on and never let go?

Quentin twists his head, nosing along the side of Eliot’s throat, all breath and warmth and cinnamon. Eliot’s stubble burns as it drags along Quentin’s temple and cheekbones, but he can’t help but lean into it. Press up against it, force the feel of it scraping against his skin. All tender and _sharp;_ all meeting in a dance of desperation. He can practically feel Eliot’s heart beat, pressing up against his own, can practically taste it as he breathes him in at his throat. Wants to bite, lick, consume.

He lifts up, just enough to move in closer, _as close as possible._ Takes in every bit of warmth Eliot’s willing to offer; all that he’s emitting. His cheekbone presses up against Eliot’s; feels Eliot’s fingers dig into the back of his neck, fingernails blunt, but forming little crescents in the skin there. Can feel the pressure building—not just from his fingers. Hearts beating faster. Syncing up. Can feel his crash up against his chest, and Eliot’s echo the beat, a violent burst of emotion bursting from him and washing over Quentin like a wave. All consuming. All encompassing. All for him.

Eliot swallows audibly, his adams apple bobbing. For a moment, Quentin fears he’s had enough, eyelashes fluttering, brushing up against the top of Quentin’s cheekbone as Eliot opens his eyes—but the hand around the back of his neck only digs in deeper, like it’s fighting for proof this is real. And Quentin reaches up between them, places a hand between their hearts, palm down on Eliot’s chest. “It’s real,” He whispers, “I’m real.”

Eliot laughs, nodding against him, recreating the subtle friction of his stubble brushing against Quentins cheek. Like rose thorns; bittersweet. Painful but welcome. Quentin leans into the feel of it again. “Missed you,” Eliot says into his hair.

Missed you too, Quentin wants to say. _Like the feel of a wool blanket on the coldest night. Missed you too. Like the warmth of a hand on his waist when he’s afraid. Missed you too. Like the words that never want to be spoken, but settle at the back of his throat. Missed you, too. Like everything unspoken between them. Everything still to be said; done; experienced. Missed you too. Missed your skin and your voice and your heart. Missed having you here with me._

He doesn’t realize he’s said it all, until he feels the up tilt of Eliot’s lips. The soft, cooling warmth of his lips bowing in a smile. Like sweet music, but silent. Like art for the blind.

“You’ve gone soft on me,” Eliot murmurs into his skin. “All lame and mush and . . .” He trails off, inhaling slowly as he turns his face in towards Quentins. “Gotta say something,” Adds after a moment, his lips trailing along the skin, until they dance a hairs breadth away from the corner of Quentin’s mouth.

Quentin’s not sure who’s heart has skipped a beat. He’s not afraid to admit he thinks it might be his.

“Say it,” He says, bumping his nose against Eliot’s. “Say it.”

He knows.

 _Of course_ he knows what it is. They wouldn’t be here, like this. Lost in each other. Lost to the world but for one another, if he didn’t.

He knew _decades_ ago, and years and weeks and hours and _seconds_ ago. He’s known. But, Eliot. Sweet, beautiful, Eliot—who is only one of those things. Lionhearted Eliot. Yes. That’s his Eliot—his _lionheart_. Oblivious and lionhearted. Obliviously lionhearted.

Say it, he wants to chant. Say it, say it, _say it._

He doesn’t even realize he _is_ chanting it, clutching Eliot’s shirt in his fist, eyes squeezed shut, until Eliot chuckles softly, the sound practically vibrating against Quentin’s lips. They’re all negative space, now. Not even room forbreath of the wind to pass through them. “Shh,” Eliot hushes, lips grazing against Quentin’s; a taste of torturous saccharine. So close yet so far. “Let me speak.”

“Impatient.”

It should be funny that all words have slipped Quentin’s mind, but he can’t think.

“I know,” Eliot replies, humor heavy in his voice. “’S why I love you.”

He swallows again, and Quentin freezes.

For all of three seconds.

And then he’s closing the last of the space between them, the stupid gaping, infinitesimal distance between their lips closing in one swift roll of his neck. Pulls and pushes and grabs and clings as tightly and as closely as he can. Leaves no room, no space, nothing. Nothing to separate them. Differentiate them.

“You bastard,” He mutters up against Eliot’s lips, the words muffled because he’s too desperate, too scared, to pull away. “You absolute _bastard.”_

Eliot just laughs, clutches him impossibly tighter, so impossible to be so close, and chants against his lips every time they separate for air—I love you, I love you, I love you—and Quentin’s known. Keeps saying he knows. Keeps echoing the sentiment—I love you too, _I love you too_ —but the desperation runs deep, deep through them like waterfalls screaming through their veins. Can never say it enough. Can never let go. Not again.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

Whispered into the space their lips overtake.


End file.
